


Spring: Games

by caras_galadhon (Galadriel)



Category: Sharpe - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Jealousy, M/M, Napoleonic Wars, Soldiers, Vignette, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-28
Updated: 2005-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-08 21:05:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/447549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/caras_galadhon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Chosen Men enjoy some leisure time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spring: Games

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little ficlet to commemorate Spring. I have the crazy idea in my head to do one of these for each of my active fandoms today (hello, procrastination). Luckily that's not too many. Two down, two to go.

_Whatever games are played with us, we must play no games with ourselves._ ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

***

Moments like these don't come along often enough. Tents pitched ( _a luxury not off'n afforded_ ), midday meals simmering over fires ( _better'n a slurp of tea and a mouthful of mouldy bread stolen while on watch_ ), and the extravagance of hours in which to laze about, read ( _if'n you can_ ), sing ( _if'n yer Hagman_ ), and beat your officer into a bloody mess.

All in the name of sport, of course.

The Chosen Men have spent the morning kicking about an only-slightly flat ball, and they're all in agreement that it was well worth the mutton shank Perkins traded for it. For once the mud streaking their clothes isn't sullied by enemies' blood; it's all fairly won evidence of nosebleeds and scrapes dealt by friends, of moments of triumph and loss without the taint of death.

Somewhere around eleven the Men begin dropping out of the game, leaving only Harper and Sharpe still on the field, good-naturedly shoving, pushing, tripping each other under the guise of the game, grappling and wrestling and laughing like the Men haven't heard either man laugh in too long to remember.

Tired and more than a bit muddy, Harris has spent the last hour with his sketchbook, trying to catch the intricacies of the tiny flower in front of him, its petals miraculously not bruised by endless marching, stomping, stamping soldiers' boots. Occasionally he looks up and grins at the two men, still wresting the ball from one another's hands. His grin gets wider when he sees Sharpe straddling Harper, grinding mud -- and his hips -- against Harper's uniform.

There are soldiers' games, and then there are games that all soldiers know are no game.

Harps leans upward, grabbing a handful of shirt and pulling Sharpe down to growl something in his ear. Harris hears Sharpe laugh rather than sees him, as a swirl of skirts and petticoats suddenly, unexpectedly fills his vision.

Harris sniffs the air. _Perfume._ Something delicate and dainty, designed to hide the smell of gunpowder and burning fat that permeates all the battlefield touches. A scent Harris imagines mimics that of the flower he's spent so long sketching.

The minutes stretch, and the skirts settle.

There's a shout; Sharpe's voice, breathless and elated, ringing out in the clear air. Harris can only imagine what he and the Sarge are up to. Doesn't want to imagine what Sharpe's wife is seeing, reading in their game.

As suddenly as they appeared and settled, petticoats and lace blind Harris as the skirts wheel 'round; a heel comes down heavily, deliberately, on leaves and petals. Beauty crushed by beauty; soft, subtle petals crushed by the subtleties of husband and wife, soldiers and sinners. It's all spelled out too clearly in that one moment: what she knows, what the Men know, what they fear Sharpe and Harps are blind to.

Harris tears the page from his notebook, crumples the charcoal and graphite flower in his hand.

Perhaps moments like these are rare for a reason.


End file.
